


Drunken Asshole Guilt-Party Rumpus 2016

by RocksCanFly



Category: DCU, DCU (Animated), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Post-Invasion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:18:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2007282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksCanFly/pseuds/RocksCanFly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Invasion's over, Wally's dead, Dick is busy avoiding everyone, M'gann and Superboy are on Mars, and all Artemis Crock wants is to get drunk on Kaldur's couch and talk about her feelings.</p><p>Too bad things never go the way she wants them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunken Asshole Guilt-Party Rumpus 2016

**Author's Note:**

> A gift to a friend, Shadesninde, who has far too many good ideas and too little patience to let me write a proper summary.

* * *

 

Your name is Artemis Crock. You have died two times in the last three months, your entire abdomen is bruised where one of your best friends just "shot" you, you are a living deception, and you're currently facing down the entire supervillian alliance known as the Light and the leaders of an alien armada.

It’s the greatest moment of your life.

You are standing goddamn _victorious_. The Reach and the Light and their nasty little plans have come crashing down around their ears and you and your Team- **_your Team_** , not the League- You’re responsible for it.

You are fucking _elated_ and so ready to kick some ass that you’re practically vibrating with it. You see Wally in the corner of your eye and your heart squeezes tight in your chest because-

This is the last time he’s going to fight by your side, like the old days, and it’s going to be the greatest triumph of your lives.

And then it’ll be over.

And you love him, you’ll follow him anywhere because he is the only person who has ever, in your whole life, put you first. So.

After tonight, after you beat them-

It’ll all be over.

You swallow against the bitterness that rises at that thought, of costumes stuffed into a closet to gather dust while your skills rust away ( ** _again_** ). Your stomach turns at the memory of the grey, sick feeling of erecting a wall between your Past and your happy, _normal_ , spandex-devoid Future.

You force your eyes forward again, to where Kaldur and M’gann are making their standoff against Vandal Savage. It’s the last time you’ll really get to see them in action. Better make the most of it.

Kaldur’s giving one of his victory speeches, and the triumph you can hear in his voice is making your ears ring because, _yes_ , **_finally_**. M’gann has a sword pointed at Savage’s throat, and seeing the two of them standing together like that, like they’re unbeatable and more importantly like they’re partners again, a _team_ -

The last of the wound that opened up in you when you found her kneeling in front of his body closes, and you are so _proud_.

“We know who our true friends are,” he finishes, and you can just _feel_ his eyes as they flick back to M’gann, to you and Wally and Dick, to his Team standing behind him. And his voice is so strong, because he believes in it, in you, all of you. In the strength of that trust that got you four- the only four who knew, who _really_ knew what was happening- through this hell.

Behind you, Wally and Dick both flinch. Well, Wally flinches. Dick just re-adjusts his grip on his weapons. No big deal, _nothing_ to see here.

And somewhere in you- under the triumph and joy and the sheer _readiness_ of this fight- your heart breaks.

 

* * *

 

It’s three days out from the night you saved the world from the Reach and lost the love of your life. Traditional media dictates you should still be in mourning, sobbing your eyes out into one of his sweaty t-shirts and lamenting that you’ll never love again.

You’ve always liked to fuck with tradition. You’re kinky like that.

So instead of getting dehydrated the not-fun way, you’re knocking on the apartment door of one of your best friends on this whole shitty planet. The bottle of tequila clenched in your hand is a little emptier than it was when you started the walk over here, and the world has a pleasant slushiness to it.

Tonight, you are getting wasted, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop you.

More importantly, tonight you are getting Kaldur’ahm of Shayeris wasted, because god knows he needs it as much as you do.

It’ll be just the two of you tonight, though. This is because there are currently about eight people you can currently stand being vulnerable (i.e. drunk as a skunk) around. Raquel and Zee are off on a clean-up mission. M’gann and Conner are on Mars and alcohol doesn’t work on them anyways, though M’gann still loves the taste of all things mixed and fruity. Dick’s being a mopey little shit and Roy’s being a responsible dad to your precious, precious niece who you’ve met all of once and will slay legions for.

And Wally Fucking West is the reason the bottle’s already a fifth of the way gone.

So it’ll be just you and Fishsticks, even if all he does is look at you blankly and hold your hair back when you inevitably start puking in his kitchen sink.

You’re contemplating transforming your ponytail into a shitty bun via the magic of really stretchy rubber bands when the door opens.

A ghost looks out at you.

Jumping back, you stumble down the steps leading to Kaldur’s apartment. By the time you’ve recovered yourself, said ghost has left the shadow of his doorway and has transformed into Kaldur.

Normal Kaldur. Not the faceless not-Kaldur who _totally_ hasn’t been haunting your dreams/conscience for the last few weeks.

That would be silly.

“Artemis, are you alright?” he exclaims, moving to help you to your feet. You wave him off.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say. “Just drunk and jumpy. Don’t worry about it. Hey, you can make it up to me by inviting me in.” You look up mischievously at him, shaking the bottle to draw his attention to it and away from your spazz-fest. Making your intentions for the night clear without actually having to say “let me get drunk and cry on your couch” is an added bonus.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile hiding out in the corner of his mouth. Grinning, you grab his arm and pull him into the apartment, swaying exaggeratedly.

You can’t hear it, but you swear you feel him chuckling.

Maybe tonight won’t be too shitty after all.

* * *

 

Getting Kaldur to drink with you isn’t even half a difficult as you thought it was going to be.

“Stop sipping like a bitch- it’s a shot, you fancy fucker. Throw it back!”

Kaldur glares halfheartedly over his wineglass-cum-shotglass (and, honestly, what kind of a self-respecting twenty-some-odd year old has wineglasses and no shot glasses? The nerve of this Atlantean asshat, out-classing you and literally everyone you know under the age of 30). He sighs exaggeratedly and throws the rest of the shot back like a pro.

“Thereeerreee we go”, you slur, throwing your arm around his shoulders. Mussing his hair, you reach for the bottle with your other hand. The world is pleasantly warm and sorta spinny, but you’re not as far gone as you want to be. You eye the bottle speculatively. There’s about enough left for six shots.

Setting the bottle clumsily back on the table, you tug him down to your level. It’s a hard tug- the fucker grew over the last few years. He’s more than a head taller than you, and you can’t help but giggle.

Sobering a little, you grab his chin in your hand. You turn him to face you, and scrunch your face up in an attempt at seriousness. He snorts. You don’t let it discourage you.

“Kaldur,” you say, glaring.

The little shit lifts one stupidly nice eyebrow at you. “Artemis?”

“We,” you pronounce, gesturing between the two of you with your free hand. “Are going to play a game.”

“A game,” he says amusedly, arching his silly-stupid-perfect eyebrow even higher at you. A hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, and whatever else happens tonight, you know at least one of your goals has been accomplished.

“Yeah, a game. We’ve been so caught up in the whole planet-being-invaded-by-aliens thing that we’ve missed out on like a year of irresponsible-but-legal drinking-age shenanigans! We need to rectify that pronto, bucko. Okay,” you say, sloshing the bottle a bit. “I’d say we’ve got enough in here for about six more shots. So, truth or dare, three rounds. Each. You go first, because I’m brilliant and I brought the alcohol. But as a courtesy owing to the fact that it’s your couch we’re currently sprawled on, I’ll make the first one a softball. Ready?”

He laughs, snagging the bottle from your hand. You’ve never seen him this relaxed in your _life_ , and a small part of you that isn’t soaked in 120 proof alcohol is, momentarily, very sad.

Then he takes a swig and, grinning, demands “Truth. I- and you, I believe- am far too inebriated for any sort of dare at the moment, _especially_ one of the infamous Artemis Crock’s making.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding sagely. He’s got a point. “First question- did you and Roy ever do the do?”

He sputters, spraying tequila over the coffee table. “E-excuse me?”

You roll your eyes, snatching the bottle from his hands. “The _do_. The frick–frack, the horizontal mambo. Did you and Roy ever do the _do_.”

“Artemis-“

“It’s a pretty simple question, Fishsticks.”

“It’s a very invasive question!”

“Look, I know you two had a _thing_ -“

“What!?”

“Wait a moment,” you gesture at him with the bottle. Droplets fly off the rim and splatter on the coffee table. You can't be assed to spare them a glance, because _what?_ “Are you telling me you didn’t…”

“No!” he exclaims, affronted. “Why would you even-“

“But the way you looked at his ass, and the way he looked at _your_ ass, and the sappy drunk couch talks and the gratuitous _touching_ -“

“We. Didn’t,” he says firmly.

Call the presses, your world has just been _rocked_.

And then he reaches for his beer on the table, avoiding your eyes.

“But you wanted to,” you assert, and suddenly everything about how he's been avoiding Roy for the last three days makes sense. “You just never had the guts to ask, didn’t you?” you exclaim, poking his cheek in with one outstretched finger. Well, you go for his cheek. You end up more in the forehead region.

He bats your hand away, blushing.

Smelling victory, you throw your arms around his shoulders. “Oh, my poor shy little fishfry!” you cackle. “I can’t believe you’ve had a crush on him so long and you never said anything!”

“We are done discussing this,” he says firmly, but his serious tone is bellied by the fact that he _totally_ isn’t pushing you away, and that cute little half-smile has come back.

“Okay, fine, more discussion to come when we’re sober and hungover. Your turn to ask me.”

Rolling his eyes, he gently pries you off of him, snatching the bottle from you. Pouring your next shots, he asks- “Were you really ever intending to retire to civilian life?”

“Wow. Thanks for the softball, Kaldur,” you say suddenly nervous. “Nice to know we aren’t letting it get _serious_ at all.”

He lifts a brow. “You _did_ begin by asking inappropriate questions about my sex-life,” he deadpans.

“Totally different things. Not equitable at all. I call bad trade,” you bluster. But, hey. You never put any rules about which topics you could ask about, and it is a fair question.

You down the shot.

“No,” you confess. You wait a beat.

His expression doesn’t change at all. No surprised eyes, no shocked gasp.

You wonder at how everyone could see how transparent you are, and how the man who was closest to you could have been so blind.

“Not a surprise, huh?” you say softly, hanging your head in your hands. “I know I should have been able to, for him, and I really thought I could do it! For a while it was fine, but-“

“-But it is not in your nature to abandon such a large part of yourself, even for love,” he finishes.

And he’s right.

The two of you sit back on the couch, letting the silence stretch out.

“It never would have worked, would it?” you ask the ceiling.

Sighing, he shifts your head to his shoulder. He lets your hair down from its high ponytail, working his fingers gently through the mass. You sigh, relaxing into the gesture. The tequila’s lent a considerable heaviness to your limbs.

“It would have,” he says softly, stroking. “You loved him greatly, and I believe that in time he would have learned to let you go where you were needed.”

You huff a laugh, but you feel a little better despite yourself. “Maybe, maybe not. I probably would’ve just ended up sneaking off in the middle of the night like Jaime does, stashing my bow and costume in some neighbor’s abandoned attic, making flimsy excuses for why I missed this event or that.”

“It would not have come to that,” Kaldur says lightly, chuckling. “He would have found you out in the first week. You are a terrible liar.”

“Hey!” you say, slapping him lightly. “I’m a great liar! How the hell else would we have convinced your dad we were-“

“-Maybe now,” he concedes. “But once…“

“Okay, I was a shitty liar as a kid, sue me,” you huff. “New topic- You know that whole thing where we lied to your dad? Did you ever think about, you know, actually doing it?”

He stiffens besides you.

“Excuse me?” he asks incredulously.

Okay, you didn’t mean for this to be _that_ awkward, but honestly he’s being a little over-dramatic. So you push it a little further.

“C’mon,” you drawl casually, turning to face him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t, like, even a little. No one’s that noble, Kaldur.”

Affronted surprise warps into offense. “I would never-“

“Don’t lie, Kal,” you interrupt, smiling. “We all know how it was with Tula, you had to have thought about it at least a little bit.”

“If you’re implying that I-“

“Oh, I’m implying it alright.”

And here’s the disconnect- you’re grinning, because you know he did, he had to have- if the man has a _single_ straight bone in his body, or like, a little bit of him that _likes_ boobs, he had to have thought about it at _least_ once in all those nights you spent lying in in a bed together. Manta was really suspicious about the whole new-partner thing, and you guys had to work pretty hard to be convincing.

You don’t think it’s too cocky to think that Kaldur thought about you-and-him _that_ way at least a little. Hell, you certainly did. You were in a committed relationship, not _blind_.

But the thing is-

He doesn’t look like you’re asking a silly, inappropriate question here.

You were expecting blushing, stutters, all the tinsel and trappings of virgin fish jesus being asked if he ever got a little curious about what it’d be like to do it with one of his best friends.

But he doesn’t look like that

He looks betrayed, and angry, and maybe just a little guilty, like he knows he did something that could be wrong taken out of context but really wasn’t and you think that maybe the two of you have gotten on to different topics in the middle of the alcohol and soul tearing confessions and drinks and guilt.

“I never thought of it, not once- you have to believe me,” he says, and somewhere along the line offense has warped into a sort of desperation. He’s wide-eyed and a little scared looking, like-

Like M’gann was, when she was convinced you thought she’d become a monster.

You think you know what he thought you were accusing him of.

“Whoa there, Kaldur! I was talking about fucking me! Did you ever think about _fucking_ me?”

His jaw drops and his face _instantly_ goes dark beet red and under any other circumstances you’d be busting a gut laughing.

But right now you just feel like you’re going to throw up, and it’s not the tequila talking.

“E-excuse me?”

“I promise I was talking about whether you ever thought about you and me bumping uglies,” you assure him, and you hope he doesn't notice the strain in your voice.

He doesn't.

He looks mortified, but relieved. “I never-“

“Hey, hey. Forget about it. Let’s talk about the whole freak-out thing you just had there. What was that all about?” And you _know_ what it was, and you should just let this drop, because you’re walking down a very dangerous road here, and whatever he’s got hiding in the shadows is nothing compared to the Pandora’s box of _your_ shit that’s going to inevitably open up at the end of it.

But you are not a wise woman when you have eight shots of tequila in you. So you push.

He shakes his head, reaching for the bottle. Trying to return things back to normal, bury it.

“Let’s not,” he says decisively, and he’s so freaked out that he’s started to use conjunctions. “Let’s really, really not. Artemis, I misunderstood and thus spoke rashly, there’s really nothing to say about-“

“The hell there _isn’t!_ ” And it’s not nothing to him, it really, really isn’t. But you know he’s not going to admit it, and the tequila (and the stress of the last three days and the last four months) has made you impatient and stupid and-

And you are so _sick_ of lies, and people hiding things, and omissions.

So you snatch the tequila from the table, because you're _still_ not drunk enough for this. When you've finished gulping down something you pray is courage you set the bottle back down hard with a thud like an axe.

And you put it out there for him.

“You thought I was talking about whether you ever really thought about you betraying us, right?” You say it softly, and you know he'll think its because you're trying to be _gentle_ , because he has always thought the best of you went you don't deserve it. But any softness in your voice is because guilt is already starting to _choke_ you and you can hardly get the words out.

His shoulders slump, and burying his head in his hands, he nods.

“I know you think it’s ridiculous,” he admits, speaking to his knees. “You’d never think I would, I know you know me better than that, but sometimes I had to wonder, with how easily the rest of the Team seemed to buy it, even-“ and his breath hitches, like there's been a knife buried in his _back_ , and fuck, **_fuck_** you aren’t ready for this _why did you have to push him_ \- “Even Roy bought it, believed that I would…”

He takes a deep shuddering breath, and lifts his head to look up at you.

You have never in your life seen Kaldur'ahm of Shayeris cry.

“But I know I should trust you,” he admits quietly, guiltily. His eyes are wet and shining as he looks at you. “I know that you, and Dick and Wally- you _knew_ it was an act. And I am deeply sorry, for not trusting that you would keep faith. I know now that _you_ would not doubt me, and I am _sorry_.”

All your air leaves you, and you should just shut up and take that, accept his apology and drink more and _move the hell **on**._

But-

He looks so _guilty_ , and life has been so unfair to him for so damn long, and he has lied and lied and _lied_ -

And it's so fucking _wretched_ that he never suspected even once that he was being lied to, too.

“That’s the thing, Kaldur,” you say roughly, hugging him from the side. He relaxes into it, because he _trusts_ you and you can tell that he knows in his heart that you would _never_ hurt him.

And you’re half-way to tears and half-way to laughter, because this is so, so _ridiculous_ , and you’re gonna _puke_ -

“We did,” you whisper into his shoulder. He smells like saltwater and his skin is soft against your cheek and you're reminded of a story Zattanna once told you, about a man named Judas and the kiss he gave to a friend.

A moment passes, and you wonder if he heard you.

Then large hands grasp your shoulders gently, and he twists around until you’re facing each other on the couch. His hands tighten on you, just a bit. You stare resolutely at the space on the couch between you.

“You _what_ ,” he says softly, and you shouldn’t look up you shouldn’t look up, fuck he sounds so vulnerable right now you will _not_ be able to bear what you will see if _you look up_ -

You look up.

_Fuck._

He looks so betrayed and lost and hurt and-

He looks like Roy did the night Green Arrow told him he was calling off the hunt for Speedy.

It’s amazing- you think in the part of your head that isn’t screaming at you to ‘ _shut up, moron!’_ -how similar they are.

You shove Kaldur’s hands off your shoulders, twist so you can hang your head in your own hands. You feel fifteen again. You are a cowardly coward who _runs_ , you can’t look at him if you’re going to keep talking about this.

And you know that you’re going to keep talking about this.

You take a breath that shudders in your chest. Next to you, he tenses.

“We doubted, okay? We considered it, you poor dumb fuck,” you start quietly. “ _We made a plan_. I was- I was supposed to _kill_ you if you ever went rouge, _really_ went rogue. But we didn’t know, we didn’t know that you’d never,” and, wow, self. Ten points for coherency. “And I don’t know that I _could_ have, but Kaldur- I’m so _sorry_.”

Kaldur flinches away, getting up from the couch and walking to the open window. It’s a ridiculously cliché tableau, you think through the haze of ethanol and grief (grief because something _important_ it dieing in front of you, _again_ , and again you _can't stop it_ ). You curled up in on yourself on the couch, him hunch-shouldered and facing out towards the bay. In any other life, with any other people, it could be something as simple and stupid as a lovers’ spat.

A breeze blows through, ruffling his loose shirt and stirring your hair.

"What..." Silence. He leans further out, chest practically hanging out over the street. He looks like he’s about to fly away, escape.

A few more seconds pass.

"What did I do wrong?" he finally says softly, and you can hardly hear him over the sound of your own heart thudding in your chest.  
  
You laugh: a short, sharp note. " _Nothing_. That- that was the _problem_. After Tula’s death, and finding out about your dad? And that Orin and Mera and your own _mother_ , that they all _lied_ to you for your entire life, after you _trusted_ them- Anyone else in your place, they would have been angry, at least a little, but you never-” _talked to us, let anyone in_ , you don’t say.

“But,” he says softly to the sea. His chest has started to move in-out-in-out, and you’d swear he was trying to meditate if it wasn’t moving so fast, like he’s panicking and-

You fucked up so much, you never should have come here, have come to him for this, after all the things you did, what you and Dick and Wally were so _ready_ to believe about him-

His breathing keeps speeding up, and then he’s shuddering, making strangled, rough sounds like he’s trying to get a hold of himself.

When he finally speaks his voice is cracked and rasping, like he’s choking something back. “I was so ready, so many times. To end it. To end everything, because of the things he asked of me,"he admits to the air softly. "But I pulled through because I believed in _you_ , in this team, and you of all _people_ thought I would _betray_ you?”

“We didn’t _know_. We- you never let anyone _in_ , and we tried talking to Roy, because if you were going to vent to anyone we were sure it would have been him. But he said you hadn’t spoken to him.”

He tenses, hands squeezing the windowsill. Little fissures form under his palms.

“I tried to talk to him. He refused radio contact, _he_ ,” Kaldur’s voice starts to crack, and so does the windowsill. “He _abandoned_ me, and then it was too late, I couldn’t risk exposing myself, putting the mission at risk for my own needs-”

You feel suddenly, violently sick. "What _about_ your needs, Kaldur? You could have talked to _any_ of us, you know we would have been there for you, and you didn’t need to jump into the mission so quickly, you could have waited until you’d had some time to fucking _process_. That’s why we, why we thought you might be a risk. None of us could figure out why- hell, _how_ \- you were handling things the way you were.” You're half-way to shouting now, and you're so pissed at Dick and Wally for leaving you to do this _alone._

His shoulders shift, tensing, but his voice stays soft when he speaks again. “So, after six years, _six years_ \- you still don’t trust me?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, suddenly desperate, because dammit you can’t _lose_ him. Not him too. “I’m sorry, what else could you want?”

“I want my life back,” he shouts suddenly.

“I want to go home,” he continues more quitely, and he’s finally, _finally_ angry. “I want to see my family, to swim the caverns of Shayeris without waiting for someone to plunge a _knife_ in my back! Artemis, do you know the things they made me _do_?”

“ _Yes_. Dick told us everything. And he told us how- how _stoic_ you were when you reported to him, even in notes, like it didn’t even _phase_ you-”

“When your father made you kill those men,” he hisses, “Did you let yourself feel _anything_ , show _anyone_ how it made you feel?”

“That was low,” you whisper harshly.

But, no. You didn’t. Because showing anyone might have led to showing _him_ , and showing Sportsmaster how much you hated killing would have just convinced him you needed more _practice_.

Letting those feelings out- Telling _anyone_ , even Cameron, would have risked making it harder to keep it from showing around him.

Would have made it all _worse_.

And with a sick pang of realization you finally understand. 

Kaldur nods. “Yes, yes that was low. But so was planning to eliminate me with no evidence of any wrongdoing besides the fact that I did not _cry_ enough to meet Dick’s _satisfaction_ ,” he retorts sharply.

“You _know_ that’s not fair,” you protest.

“No,” he admits. The fight leaves his shoulders, replaced again with defeat.

Immediately, you miss the anger. It hurt less to see, to hear in his voice.

“I suppose it is not. But, Artemis- did you really think I could betray everyone, side with my father? You, of all people?”

Nausea slides through you, black and heavy. Your head is buzzing, and you feel like a traitor.

Well, more of one.

"No," you admit, “Not really.”

He turns to face you, sinking down to lean against the window on his forearms.

"Then why _you_?" he asks, voice miserable. “Why would you volunteer to neutralize me,”- and it _kills_ you, kills you that he can’t even bring himself to call it what it would have been: _murder_ \- “If you didn’t really believe that I would betray the League?”

  
"Because if it had turned out that we were _wrong_ , I couldn’t let Dick or Wally do it," you reply, voice empty. “You- all of you, but especially _you_ \- always seem to forget about me. About the things I’ve done. You just said it yourself- It wouldn’t have been the first time I killed someone who didn’t deserve it.”

Your eyes have drifted back to your knees at this point, so it’s a surprise when you feel his hand upon your shoulder.

“That’s not who you _are_ , Artemis,” he says voice and hand gently. “It never was. I cannot believe that you would-“

“Let myself be used like that?” you finish for him.

Bitterness wells up in your throat: at life, at Dick and _Wally_ because _fuck_ them for this, fuck Wally for dying and Dick for hiding away in Bludhaven and for leaving you _alone_ with this **_mess_**.

“We’re not so different, that way," you spit bitterly. "You- always throwing your life away, like you don’t even _matter_. Like you’re some asshole’s idea of what a soldier’s supposed to be. And me,” your mouth curls up without your consent, and you tighten into yourself, voice going soft. “Daddy’s little monster.”

And then there are arms around you, pulling you into a hug and you’re crying, **_again_** , like you _promised_ yourself you wouldn’t anymore, but you heart _hurts_ and your head is pounding and you can’t stop soaking the man’s- your best _friend’s_ \- shirt in tears and _snot_ because, because everything _sucks_ and **_you_** -

“I don’t want to lose you, too,” you whisper, clutching his back as he kneels in front of you, head hooked over your shoulder. “Wally’s _gone_ and Dick won’t _talk_ to me and _Kaldur_ -" you suck in a wet breath, your heart is a tight fist in your chest and you're _choking_ on it. "-Kaldur I don’t want to lose everyone to this _stupid_ war and its stupid secrets and stupid, stupid lies. I can't, okay? I _can't._ ”

“You won’t,” he says quietly and it's all he needs to say and you know he’s forgiven you _already_.

Because he’s a stupid idiot, and he lets people walk all over him and get away with murder and-

And, even after everything, he’s your brother and he _loves_ you.

And you cling to him tighter and try very, _very_ hard not to puke on his shirt because it’s a _nice_ shirt and because you love him, too.

And somehow, even though you know things still aren’t better, and it’s _not_ all okay, and it might _never_ be-

You believe him.


End file.
